My Cousin John Poem by Nick Krakana

Some call home a place of bricks from clay
Others mark dates on calendars each day

My cousin John traveled the bush his way
Rolling along in a grader by day

Rich men worry about money
So envy his way

Cousin was in his lair
Out there in baptismal bush air

Greeting the moose and bear
And all other wildlife out there

Getting back snuggly at 40 below
To his trailer buried in northern snow

He lay down imagines to himself
If only I could make roads on high

This Gypsy blood we cousins do share
He imagines himself way out there

Through the bush cousin John opened the way
When the need be he'd work 15 hours a day
After day after day

The bush is steadfast
With never changing ways

Like a starry winters night
She makes things right

A roadbuilder not a politician
Nor lawyer he be

Johns mind filtered through
A working man's day

As boulders rolled off the end of his blade
Music to ears smoothing out the way

Each bend in the road a new tapestry be
Offered up more of the Creators majesty
On frosty winter mornings at minus 33

John a pioneer like father like son
Building a land with working hands

His roots burrow down deep
Into warm summer sands

Were the birch and pine
Cast shadows so fine

Were time is set
To a season's change
The largest gear
In a time peace range

January 27th 2021
Copyright

John and I would talk on the phone sometimes for hours. He loved to tell me of his life as a bush road builder, making clear the way for logging trucks, it was a life he loved and I don't think he would have traded it for anything, the best comparison I can give is of a sea captains love of the open ocean wrapped up its freedom, his lungs brimming full with every gust of salty air.